


Symphony

by saintjoy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Image, F/F, First Time, For My Moirail, Frottage, Oral Sex, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:04:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintjoy/pseuds/saintjoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By reflex, you snap back and catch her before she can move the fabric an inch up your torso. She gives you that concerned look again: her lips are no longer loose, but pursed in worry. You take a breath, and nod. She's slow to continue, as you are, too, until your shaking hands resume fondling her breasts and making that stream of gorgeous sounds come from her slender throat. It flexes with her every breath. You're going blind from how hot the blush on your face is by the time your shirt is up to your shoulders and she's gazing – oh gosh, she's staring, what if she was grossed out by your stretch marks or disgusted by the rolls of fat that leak over the waist of your jeans what if she wanted to stop because you're just too ugly for her to have sex with your heart is pounding oh gosh oh gosh</p>
<p>
  <i>"You're beautiful."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symphony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [its_shnazzy_time](https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_shnazzy_time/gifts).



She is the world to you.

 

She's the sailboat to your anchor, the bouquet of flowers to your simple vase, the martini to your few salty olives on a toothpick. She's stunning, bold, outgoing: all things she'd expect from a lover of hers but here you are, lying beside her and wondering how, of all people, your dearest friend chose you for her own.

 

You are Jane Crocker, and you've never considered that you'd have sex at all, let alone with the devastatingly gorgeous creature that is lining lipstick kisses up and down your jaw as warm shudders pick up each breath you take by a single thread. The two of you have discussed it once or twice before, and it had unnerved her a few times how awful opposed you had seemed to the idea. You couldn't bring yourself to tell her the real reason why – a habit you really should grow out of seeing that it only gets you into the most finicky of situations – but you consented anyway, worrying that if you didn't do it then you never would find a sudden burst of confidence ever again.

 

As much as it scares you, you've never considered that you'd remain abstinent all your life. There have been times where you would stay up far past the moment your father fell asleep, praying he wouldn't wake up as you slipped your fingers underneath the stretchy waistband of your red and blue pajamas and grew familiar with what made stars sparkle all over your body. Where curling your finger made your body convulse, where grazing the smallest knuckle made you moan without meaning to, where twitching your few fingers back and forth made your feet tremble in desperate need for release and where you could rub just a few times back and forth to get it, biting back gasps and sweating underneath the thick covers.

 

You don't remember when you started fantasizing while you pleasured yourself, but you do remember no fantasies were nearly as delightful as this. This, this being pressed into the couch and kissed with lips that taste like wax and a tongue that tastes like alcohol. Your blue lipstick mixes with her black, and you're sure it's going to be a pain to clean up afterwards but her chest is pressing up against yours and the two nubs at the center of each of her breasts are apparent through her brassiere. 

 

Oh, gosh, this is embarrassing. You retreat for a small moment to collect yourself, and instantly the aura around the both of you cools. Her irises that resemble a piece of rose quartz your dad brought back for you when he went on a business trip to Florida follow your every movement with concern. Your cheeks heat up to a deeper shade of red. You sputter and shake your head, but then you nod as you press your palms into the spaces just under her armpits and tug her back in for another kiss.

 

You're not as deft with your tongue as she seems to be, and you're not as confident with your hands as she is, but still the slight intonations of pleasure and the small giggles she emits when you dare to let your hands wander up and down her sides – they comfort you, and her confidence starts to leak into you from how close her skin is to yours. You wish you could record the way she gasps when your palms caress her breasts.

 

Her jaw lolls open as you grip the flesh and massage it in small circles, your own nervous gaze watching for any signs of lack of enjoyment but her mascara-clad eyelashes are flitting about like crazy and it mesmerizes you into stopping altogether. Her hands come up to grab the backs of yours and you discover that watching her pleasure herself with you is something that makes you bite your bottom lip, hard. Her breathing picks up another notch. You aren't sure if she wants you to take her shirt off. Your question is answered when her forehead leans against your shoulder and her manicured fingertips dance around the hem of your shirt.

 

By reflex, you snap back and catch her before she can move the fabric an inch up your torso. She gives you that concerned look again: her lips are no longer loose, but pursed in worry. You take a breath, and nod. She's slow to continue, as you are, too, until your shaking hands resume fondling her breasts and making that stream of gorgeous sounds come from her slender throat. It flexes with her every breath. You're going blind from how hot the blush on your face is by the time your shirt is up to your shoulders and she's gazing – oh gosh, she's staring, what if she was grossed out by your stretch marks or disgusted by the rolls of fat that leak over the waist of your jeans what if she wanted to stop because you're just too ugly for her to have sex with your heart is pounding oh gosh oh gosh

 

"You're _beautiful._ "

 

She whispers the words into your ear as her thin fingers slip under your bra and tease at your nipples. You can suppress neither the moan of surprise nor the way your hips buck up into her and you don't regret it, either: her skirt is riding up and you, being the awful hypocrite you are, you want to see all of her and admire her body the way she, she she she's touching you and loving you like a golden statue of the Buddha (how appropriate you think what better religious figure to come to your mind) except she smooths her palms over your skin like the wrinkles were nothing, the love handles were nothing and you were just as skinny as she.

 

You're more nervous than you've ever been in your entire life, but gently do you raise her shirt and find the cutest bra underneath, black with pink lace and pink bows that make you giggle from how _Roxy_ it was. You're not sure where she put your shirt, but does it matter anyways? you think as you toss the garment aside and suck on the skin through your clumsy teeth. She likes it, you hope, when you lift the straps from her perfect shoulders and let the bra fall around her perfect hips and trail your tongue along her perfect skin of her perfect breasts in the most imperfect way, because you are imperfect but in every way she touches you, you feel so much less so.

 

The flushed tone her skin takes up spreads like butter to her shoulders and collarbone. The scent of her sweat with your hand on one breast and your lips on the other doesn't even faze you, you didn't wear deodorant either and maybe she'd even want to shower with you afterwards if she could even stand to see your naked body any more no Crocker, stop this! Your eyebrows fold in as you nibble harder, as if it would help push the thoughts away. Hearing her pant into your ear, hearing her sound so intimate, hearing her wanting and moaning and needing you you _you_ , it makes you melt faster than ice on a skillet.

 

The both of you discover soon that couches are not the most comfortable places to have sex. She clings to you in her half-nakedness as you pick her up, your arms looped under her upper thighs and hers around your neck, and take her upstairs wobbling with her eager kisses. Your foot slips on the top step – you two gasp at the same time and her hand goes to grab the banister and suddenly you're stable again, but your fingers have slipped into the crevice between her legs and that blush on her face is a deeper pink than her eyes. You can barely see her irises from how dilated her pupils are. Trying to take in everything. Wanting to see all of you.

 

You both giggle when you toss her onto the bed and climb in after her. For a moment you forget that your shirt is downstairs and you've lost your bra somehow on the way up and instead try to memorize the delicious wax-alcohol-love flavor of her lips on yours. Her back is arching into you. A pressure rubs you between your legs and you gasp and shudder before you realize she's crossed her legs oh so nonchalantly, and she's smirking with her knee grinding up against your crotch. Your arms are jelly in comparison to the firmness of her every move. She proves you wrong when you fall down on top of her and your breasts press together. She starts bucking up against you again, teasing as a Lalonde always does, but words barely escape her lips by the time your hand has worked up her skirt.

 

You cannot see but oh you can hear how she whimpers in delight when your thumb massages her clit through her sheer leggings (you have never been more grateful for her taste in clothes). Your lungs are heavier than shopping bags on the verge of snapping when her knee forces your legs apart so she can grind against you as well. Breaths come out with sweet undertones and her nails are digging into your back. You do not flinch. You're hypnotized.

 

Everything happens at once but you only realize it when the air on your legs is suddenly so much colder save for where her hands dance along your inner thighs. Your body shudders. Her black lipstick is smeared with your teal but you can't even worry about your genitals being stained when her tongue oh god her tongue teases your labia and her lips suck at the outer folds of skin. She doesn't seem to mind the fuzz. Your neck aches from how you've arched it, but your body is upon hot coals and your lungs are being squeezed by her fists though they are far from inside of you and no fantasies of yours could ever and will ever recreate the sensation that makes every muscle twitch on its own.

 

She moans. Her other hand is underneath her body, stroking along the swell of tenderness that she sucks at on your person, and watching her writhe as she touches herself makes your eyes shut tight again. Your throat is becoming hoarse. Your toes curl in on themselves until they cramp up and ow ow ow that is not sexy at all that hurts like hell but neither her tongue nor the lips that frame it wane from your clit. Your hole burns. Her saliva drips down into it and makes the fire hotter.

 

You can't remember when the shaving cream fell into the embers, but in a splitting moment your fingers curl into the sheets and your thighs vibrate under her soft hands and the growing flame bursts into an inferno that takes you by a whirlwind and sends you crying out with every muscle pulsing, every cell afire and every atom tensed before release. You're panting like after your first asthma attack, you're feverish like you're three years old lying in bed with an ice pack on your forehead. 

 

Her giggling pierces the momentary silence. You sit up against the headboard and beckon her to stand above you: she's confused, but your weak smile is enough for you to convince her. Small feet press into the mattress on either side of your wide hips and you shimmy down her tights. Your vision is too clouded for you to be shaking when your hands glide up her thighs and push up her skirt, and maybe you're unnerved when she's not wearing underwear but you lean up anyways. 

 

You're clumsy. Your teeth get in the way. For a moment you're afraid her hands will pat your shoulders down and she'll want to finish herself off and you worry you worry worry worry until you slide your tongue the way she did and her back spasms in delight. Her moans can't reach your ears very well with you between her legs so you work harder to make her louder, one hand clutching the subtle curves of her buttocks and the other teasing her hole further down. She shudders and winds her fingers through your hair and you hear your name once then twice then thrice then over and over and over again to the point where it isn't your name anymore, only an odd combination of consonants and vowels that don't make any sense, but they _do_ and all you can think is how she thinks you are beautiful.

 

Finally, you have your symphony.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas have SJ's first femslash


End file.
